


All This and Heaven Too

by glowstick_of_destiny



Series: Seven Devils [5]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:51:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3414758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowstick_of_destiny/pseuds/glowstick_of_destiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where there are four murders and a bachelor auction involving one James Gordon. For charity, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jim Gordon had sworn he'd never tamper with evidence, never lie in a report, never do anything that would pervert his profession and the justice system as a whole that way. No matter how hard things got and consequences be damned, he would do right by the law. 

He'd become a pariah at the precinct, lost his job, lost his fiancé, lost another good woman, lost the will to look for anyone else after that. He'd been nearly killed by a dozen perps, by both major mob bosses, even had his partner pull a gun on him one time. And through it all, his faith in his convictions never wavered. 

And now, now he finds himself being truly tested. Find himself wondering if those bars that he's built his life on could bend just a little, just this once. Because Jim would do just about anything to get out of Gotham's Annual Charity Ball Auction. 

.x. 

Nygma and Harvey's voices carry as Jim makes his way over to the scene. 

"Did you know that in Greek mythology, Athens was required to provide a yearly tribute of fourteen virgins to the kingdom of Crete, to be sacrificed to appease the half-bull Minotaur Asterion, the monstrous spawn of Crete’s queen Pasiphae and a bull she was bewitched by Poseidon to fall in love with?" 

"That's related to this vic how, exactly?" 

"No, not to the victim--" 

"Then why the hell are you yammering about it when you know damn well I'm hungover?" 

"It rather put me in mind of the upcoming festivities and the role our colleague will be playing in them. Can you not see the similarities between the two?" 

Harvey points a finger into Nygma's chest in mock indignation. "You watch your mouth. He may be our resident Boy Scout, but Jim's not a virgin." 

"Hey partner," Jim claps a hand on Harvey's shoulder. "Why're we discussing my sexual conquests instead of the dead guy over there?" 

"Is that the thanks I get for defending your honor? I'll throw you to the dogs next time. Where the hell you been, anyway? You know it makes me nervous when I beat you to a crime scene." 

"Because you're worried someone bashed my head in, or because you think you might actually be learning to get along with Nygma?" 

Harvey just gives him a _look_. 

"I got a tip." 

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" 

Now it's Jim's turn to pull a face. 

Harvey sighs. "Only you could wind up being late to your day job because you're working overtime. We need to get you a girl. Or boy. I ain't one to judge. Fact of the matter is, you haven't gotten laid in a while and it _shows_." 

"Can we please get back to the reason we're all up early and freezing out here? Nygma, help me out here." 

"If you were to enter into a relationship in the next week, it would also excuse you from otherwise required participation in the upcoming Charity Ball Bachelor Auction--" 

"Jesus, Harvey, what've you done to him? Taking your side over talking about work? I think I liked it better when you two didn't get along." 

"He has a point." 

"And you have a hangover. I don't want to, but I am prepared to take full advantage of that if you don't drop this." 

"You wouldn't." 

"I would. The rest of this crime scene investigation can involve a lot of talking in hushed voices or a lot of shouting and clapping. Your call." 

"Jesus. Looks like you finally learned to play hard ball, kid. Cobblepot must be rubbing off on you. Say, why don't you ask him out? I'm sure he could manage a few dates to get you off the hook with Essen for this, after you saved his life and all." 

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" 

"He'd say yes, you know." 

"That's not really the problem here, Harvey. I think the larger issue would be the casual emotional manipulation of someone I rely on for intel or, you know, the part where I'd be pretending to date a mob boss." 

"You could _tell_ him it's a ruse to get out of the auction." 

"Mob. Boss." 

"You're already working with him. How's this any different? A little more public maybe, but since when is making one of your dumbass decisions very obvious a problem for you? Unless your hang-up here isn't really about morals, but your reputation." 

Jim raises his voice pointedly. "We're not having this conversation." 

"Suit yourself. Nygma and I, we're gonna be in the front row to see you get auctioned off in a week. With our dates, of course." 

.x. 

The first hot dog that tastes like heaven. Although, come to think it, that might be because it's the only thing he's eaten in the last sixteen hours. He's halfway through the second one when he realized his phone isn't in his pocket. 

Fuck. It's probably just back at the precinct. And admittedly, Jim doesn't get too many calls. But if Oswald decides to call and someone besides Harvey, Nygma, or Essen picks up, it could turn into a clusterfuck real fast. He downs the hot dog in two bites and sprints back to the precinct. 

He bursts through the double doors to find Harvey balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder, a box of Chinese takeout in one hand and chopsticks in the other. Nygma's sitting next to him on the desk looking like it's taking a good bit of effort not to laugh. 

Nygma at least has the sense to look abashed when he spots Jim. Harvey just smiles and waves. 

Jim takes a deep breath, reminds himself that decking Harvey in the middle of the precinct is going to totally undermine the fragile collegial relationships he's forged. Maybe he'll deck him later, outside. 

"Yeah," Harvey says into the phone, "I think out business is finished. But Jim's here now if you wanna say hi. Doesn't look too happy, though. If he kills me while we're on the phone, I'm gonna need you to act as a witness." Nygma loses the battle with his composure and dissolves into giggles. "Yeah, yeah." He pauses, listens to something the person on the other line says. "Uh-huh. Yeah. All right, yeah." 

"Hey partner. Left your phone here, and a friend of yours called. One you met up with this morning. Didn't want him to think you were ignoring him or anything, so I picked up, and turns out he's gonna be able to do me a favor. Real charitable of him. Didn't wanna say hi to you, though. Either 'cause I mentioned you were looking pretty homicidal, or 'cause he likes me better. Still trying to work that one out." 

.x. 

In the end, Jim doesn't give Harvey a shiner. Instead, he brings him decaf coffee every day. It takes him half a week to catch on. Half a week frequently punctuated by the dulcet tones of Taylor Swift's "Better Than Revenge," which he may or may not have changed Harvey's ringtone to. With a little help from Nygma, of course, in the coding and hacking department. It wouldn't have been nearly as good if Harvey had been able to change it back. 

Maybe Harvey was right. Maybe Oswald has been rubbing off on him. 

He smiles, thinking of how the man would react if he told him about what he’d done. First eyes going wide, a bit taken aback, because this was Jim they were talking about. Then a smile. A real one, not the one he gave people when he was being polite. An amused huff, maybe. Some real laughter, bright and unrestrained, if Jim was lucky. 

Lucky? Jesus. Why should he care? 

He pushes the thought to the back of his mind. He’s got bigger things to deal with right now, like that Oswald may well be in cahoots with Harvey, which _cannot_ be good. Or, you know the string of murders, all men in their thirties or forties, all left with different types of flowers next to their corpses. The only connection between vics seems to be that they were all members of an online dating site, but hell, that’s not exactly a unique characteristic these days. So far, they’ve got no solid leads and the mayor breathing down their necks to get the whole case tied up in a goddamn bow before Gotham’s Annual fucking Charity Ball Auction. 

Both Harvey and Oswald remain infuriatingly close-lipped about the subject of their phone conversation. Even Nygma doesn't crack, just smiles and says, "It's a surprise. But extrapolating from the evidence to date, I believe that there is a high probability that you will like it." 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gobblepot... Friday? Because I can't wait til the weekend.

"Morning, sunshine!" 

Jim blinks up at Harvey. Up because his head's on some hard surface about the same level as Harvey's belt buckle. Which, unexpected. He furrows his brow, stretches his hands out to the sides experimentally. Papers and the clink of a coffee mug getting pushed into another coffee mug and shit, shit, _SHIT_. He sits up quickly, which doesn’t help with part of the equation where his whole body hurts. Like he doesn’t know he deserves worse for falling asleep. Nothing worth anything from his work last night, and now it’s Thursday morning— he fucking needed those hours. He should’ve gotten more coffee, should’ve a lap around the office, should’ve set a fucking alarm— 

Harvey’s grin shrinks. "Aw, don't be like that. I have coffee." 

Jim narrows his eyes at the paper cup. "Is this payback?" 

Harvey snorts. "Nah. Friend of yours picked it up. I'm just the delivery guy." 

Oswald. Jim sits up properly. Cranes his neck to look down the stairs. A flicker of movement, a glimpse of a long black coat by the double doors. Then Alvarez and Doherty block his view. 

“I said you spent the night here and probably weren't feeling too chatty. Was I wrong?" 

Alvarez and Doherty are on the stairs now, but the area beyond the double doors is empty. Jim tears his gaze away, refocuses on Harvey. "No." He takes the coffee. 

Jim squints at the label, like that's gonna explain why Oswald's suddenly bringing him coffee. A black band encircling a black triangle. In the triangle, a hand, fingers splayed as if casting a spell. Dangling from each finger, a string, white until the edge of the triangle and then abruptly black in the empty space above the band. A tiny black star at the end of each string. "NYX COFFEE," printed in bold, blocky letters, one word on each side of the circle. Ten to one they stocked nothing but fair trade coffee and had a board plastered with posters for local bands from the underground scene. 

Jim takes a sip. It's good. Really good. 

His phone buzzes. Even without looking up, he can feel Harvey watching him. He stuffs his phone in his pocket without looking at it. Sets his jaw, turns his attention to the case files for their latest serial killer scattered across his desk. Starts arranging them by victim with the focus of an officer dismantling a time bomb. 

Harvey shrugs out of his jacket and abandons it on the back of his chair. Pads off, likely to begin his usual routine of getting precinct coffee and pestering Nygma. 

Five minutes later, Harvey reappears with coffee. Ten minutes later, so does Nygma. 

"Unless it's the latest breakthrough from Forensics," Harvey greets him, raising his eyebrows meaningfully, "Jim and I don't wanna hear it." 

Nygma's brow furrows for a moment. Then he's grinning and turning towards Jim instead. "How's your coffee?" 

Jim shoots Harvey a dirty look. 

"I just ask," Nygma continues, "Because I was thinking of taking Rebecca-- between their name and their commitment to ethical business practices, I think she'd like it. Unless the coffee's terrible, of course." 

"It's-- tell her it's good." 

Nygma's smile widens. "Perhaps it is worth the trip, then." 

.x. 

Jim's reading the same line in his notes from an interview with one of the victim's roommates for the twentieth time. Hasn't taken in a word. His fingers twitch towards his phone. 

The chair makes a terrible scraping noise when he pushes back from his desk, like it needs to broadcast his defeat. 

Barricaded in a bathroom stall, Jim checks his phone. Two new texts from Oswald. 

_One cannot think well, sleep well, love well if one has not dined well._ And then _So I would suggest that you pair this with some actual food._

He narrows his eyes at the screen. Reads the texts again. 

There's something warm trying to unfurl in his chest. Like-- like ivy or some shit. They'd questioned a Gotham University professor on their last case, trying to get intel on recent faculty research funding decisions. But the guy wouldn't shut up about plants. Said, among other things, that the dean let the ivy run rampant over all the academic buildings. Thought it made everything look prestigious and respectable. Didn't realize, as the professor did, that it was slowly wearing away at the structural integrity of each building, brick by brick, and one day they would be brought crumbling down, nothing left of men's foolish hopes when the dust finally settled. At which point he'd thanked the man for his time and steered Harvey towards the car before he said something more indelicate than usual. 

Taken at face value, this-- the coffee, the texts, whatever this was-- it could be Oswald trying to— It was coffee, for christ’s sake. And the texts— nothing about work, or intel, or favors. Just— 

Jim presses his palms into his eye sockets. Nothing Oswald said or did can be taken at face value. 

He switches his phone to silent, shoves it back in his pocket. 

When he gets back, half the case files have migrated to Harvey's side of the desk. "Hey," he says, leaning against the desk next to him. "You had breakfast yet?" 

.x. 

Two chocolate croissants and twenty minutes later, Jim feels a little less like a zombie. Doesn't make it easier to stomach the fact that they still have no leads, no thanks to the twenty minutes he just burned. 

One day of work on the case under their belts. 32 hours left on the clock. All the scraps of evidence from the crime scenes and the interviews, all the shit spread out over their desk— and fucking nothing. 

Only he's got a nagging feeling, a small voice that sounds uncomfortably familiar saying they already have all the information they need. That the answer's right there, staring him in the fucking face. And if he only read the interview notes one more time, only looked at the shots from the crime scene from the right angle, he would be able to see it, plain and clear and maddeningly simple-- 

Harvey plants his ass on top of the notebook Jim had been reading. "You don't stop tapping that pen, I'm gonna make you eat it." Jim clenches his jaw. Concentrates on not chucking the pen at Harvey. “‘Sides, you keep this up, and you're gonna give yourself an ulcer by 35.” Harvey slides off the desk, turns to survey the evidence spread across it. "Ok, so big picture, what've we got? Four unlucky bastards wound up dead--" 

"All stabbed," Jim says. Might as well play along. Not like he’s getting anywhere with the interview notes. “But I couldn’t find the forensics report on the weapon--" 

"I pitched it." 

"You-- we talked about this. You can't just--" 

"Didn't fucking help much. Any bodega in the city can sell you a switchblade. 'Sides, I ain't used to having everything on paper. All this new bullshit you sweet talked Essen into--" 

"Is helping to make the police force more accountable.” 

"Uh-huh." Harvey's got a special knack for sounding like he's rolling his eyes without actually having to. "Thank god Nygma’s got better handwriting than you. Going off his theory that the flowers left next to the vics are ‘sposed to be saying shit in Victorian flower language, we’ve got,” he runs his finger over the orange mock in the photo from the first crime scene, down to the note beside it, “Deceit,” his finger trails across a tiger lily, “Pride or wealth,” down a geranium, “Stupidity or friendship,” and stops on a hydrangea, "Understanding or heartlessness. What with the stabbing involved here, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say ‘understanding’ ain’t what our man had in mind.” 

“Yeah, okay. That get us any closer to a lead?”

“Look, you find a dead guy who’s still got his wallet, it’s about debt, sex, or ego,” Harvey says, ticking off the options on his fingers. “All their friends say they’re in the green, not mixed up with the mob, so that leaves sex and ego. Not keeping it in your pants? That’s got both covered.” 

“You got anything else to back up that great theory of yours?” 

“Yeah. Remember how all their friends say they’d just made dating profiles on Cindr, been on a date or two, and were ‘sposed to have another one the week they were killed— ” 

“You know a judge who’s gonna go for that?” 

“Hey, remind me whose fault it is we need a warrant if we ever wanna get back into Cindr? ‘Cause somehow I don’t remember me picking a fight with the one guy in the place who wasn’t real helpful from the get-go— ” 

“It wasn’t about the investigation— if you’d heard what he said—” 

“I would’ve thought, gee, this investigation might go a little easier if I didn’t make a scene that got us thrown out on our asses— ” 

“What were the odds the CEO was doing rounds, was gonna walk by right when— ” 

“Look, I’m sure the guy’s a little bitch. But I’m saying there’s another way to dig into this without Cindr, if you’d shut up and let me explain. We’ve been trying to find some connection through the dating site, the friend group, the guys’ hobbies, but what if we’ve been looking at it all wrong? What if all these guys, they’re on a date with the same girl--" 

"Or guy--"

"Same difference -- that’s connection and motive right there—” 

“You think our killer's a suitor trying to give himself a leg up on the competition?” 

“No, I think our girl-- or guy's taken, but maybe not satisfied. Goes out looking for hookups. Their boyfriend finds out, goes after the side pieces—” 

“In a jealous rage?” 

“Something like that, yeah.” 

“But he has time to get flowers?” 

“Maybe he grows ‘em himself.” 

“It still doesn’t feel right. If he’s pissed about the cheating, why not just confront his partner?” 

“Because he’s a little bitch? I dunno, kid— he stabbed four people. Maybe logic ain’t in this guy’s driver’s seat.” 

“Yeah, but that’s the thing. He may have had weird interests, but he stabbed four people in the chest. They saw that coming, and from what Nygma said, they wouldn’t have died instantly. He had to stab them several times before they eventually bled out. Doesn’t seem like confrontation’s a problem for this guy, so—” 

“So we’ve got a few holes to fill in. You got some big lead to chase down this afternoon?” 

“You got a way to find the cheating partner? 

“Yeah, actually, I do. But you’re not gonna like it.” 

.x. 

Jim’s leaning against the squad car, staring out at the latest motel that rented rooms by the hour while he waits for Harvey to wrap up. He breathes out slow through his nose. Clenches his fist til his palms burn from nails digging into skin. Not as satisfying as punching the car would be.

Another dead end. And he can’t even pretend this one’s on Harvey. He’d agreed to come, and what the hell would he have been doing back at the precinct anyway? Only fifteen motels worth anything where discretion counted where, based on Harvey’s conversations with other officers, you could get a room without roaches and without breaking the bank. They’d made pretty good time asking for access to security footage, which wasn’t forthcoming, and gossip that might help determine if any of the vics had showed up with the mystery philanderer in tow, which flowed freely. It’s not Harvey’s fault that now they’re six hours down with nothing to show for it and just in time for rush hour traffic. 

The breathing thing’s not going so great, judging by the face Harvey makes at him when he comes out. “Keys,” he says, holding his hand out to Jim palm-up. “I wanna believe you’re not gonna get us both killed if you drive us back to the precinct, only I don’t.” 

.x. 

“Hey kid,” Harvey says, leaning into Jim’s space. They’re jammed between a silver Honda Civic and a bright red Dodge Dart, haven’t moved in inch in the past ten minutes. Not much of a view, but moving from where he’s pressed up against the passenger side window still doesn’t have much appeal. “C’mon, I got something that’ll cheer you up.” 

When Jim finally shoves off the the window and turns to face Harvey, he grabs for his hand and empties a number of scraps of paper into it. He picks one up. It has a phone number written on it. 

“You’re welcome,” Harvey says, winking at him. 

Jim had been told on many occasions that he had a terrible poker face. That his emotions played out in real time across his features, and it was quite entertaining actually, so long as you weren’t being pulled up by your collar and pushed roughly against a wall before you had time to enjoy the show. But Harvey seems to be misinterpreting, or more likely, ignoring, the look on Jim’s face, because he’s still grinning broadly. 

“Wasn’t even much of a challenge. Just told ’em you thought they were cute, but were too shy to ask yourself. Or had too much of a stick up your ass to mix business and pleasure, only I said it nicer--"

"I— ” Jim looks down at the pile, spreads the papers out across his palm to count them. “There’s eleven of these." 

"Great math skills you got there. If you had the self control of a middle schooler to go with 'em, we’d be getting somewhere." 

“Did you just ask all of them?” 

“Can’t win ‘em all, tiger. Lotta luck with the ladies though, and I figure some of the guys might’ve been straight, so that still ain’t a bad track record— don’t look at me like that. You weren’t gonna make a move, so— " 

"I wasn’t— Harvey, if I’d been interested, I would’ve said something. Myself. Because that’s how basic human interaction works." 

"I think the words you’re looking for are, ‘thanks, partner. Even though I’m not interested in any of knockouts we just met, 'cause I’m a moron, the ego boost’s great.’ ‘Sides, not everyone’s my charm to give ‘em an easy sense of confidence." 

"Right."

"Hey, asking somebody out for dinner, there’s a lot on the line. So some guys, they just kinda hang back and wait, and then get more and more bitchy about it. And I'm not sure if it's actually possible for anything to give you a shorter fuse than you've already got, but that ain't a risk I'm willing to take, so--" 

"Sonuvabitch. I— goddamnit. You’re right--" 

"Course I am. You ever see anyone go from zero to sixty fast as you do--" 

"No, no-- I mean, what if there's no cheating? What if our guy isn’t even with whoever went on dates with the vics? What if he just wants to be?" 

"Only he’s not gonna tell ‘em that, ‘cause he’s a little bitch.” 

“So he’s trying to take out the competition instead." 

"God fucking damnit.” Harvey wipes a hand down his face. Drums on the steering wheel. “You got any bright ideas?”

“We’ve gotta get back into Cindr.” 

“You got a plan?” 

“Yeah, you turn the siren on and give us a chance to get there before they close in,” he looks at his watch, “Twenty-three minutes.” 

Harvey snorts. “I meant besides that.” But he switches the siren on, and they’re getting shouted at by the drivers’ of the surrounding cars on their way towards a side street in no time. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long hiatus! I had a lot on. But now have less on, I think? And expect to add the rest of this much more quickly.

The bastard doesn't go down easy. Jim's out of breath and nursing a split lip by the time he pins the man's arms behind his back and slaps cuffs on him. 

And then that's it. 

They toss Mark Evans in the back of the cruiser, start a quiet ride back to the station. 

It doesn't stay that way for long. 

"I didn't have a choice, you know," Mark says. 

Harvey gestures towards Jim, index finger extended, hand moving in a circle. _Find the damn tape recorder and start rolling._

"How come?" Harvey says, as Jim digs through the glove compartment. 

"I was-- it was all her fault, really. Ashley." Several CDs fall into Jim's lap, and he finally sees the recorder wedged in the back. He turns it on and nods to Harvey. "I was right there, always patient, always nice. Always fucking there for her when she needed me. Helped her move, gave her a shoulder to cry on, watched all these stupid chick flicks with her. Three years of that. And it was always, 'oh, you're such a good friend, Mark,' but did I get anything to show for it? All those hours I put in?" 

"So you had to do something."

"Nothing else was getting through to her. And I had to make her see-- she just kept choosing these fucking assholes. None of them knew her like I did. Knew what she needed. Knew how to treat her right." 

"That was what the flowers were about, huh?" 

"I thought-- if it did show up on the news, and she found out they were dead-- she would at least know what they did. Know they weren't good for her anyway." 

"Not like you'd be, right?" 

"We were meant to be together." 

"Uh-huh." Harvey snorts. "You sure about that? Didn't think girls went in for scrawny guys like you who can barely land a punch." 

"People underestimate me. The men, they worked out, you could tell. They laughed at me. Didn't think they had anything to worry about. I made them stop laughing." 

"You mean when you stabbed them to death. Just so we're clear." 

Mark laughs, unrestrained, unhinged. "You should've seen their faces." 

"Right. I think that's enough from him. Jimbo--" 

"One step ahead of you," Jim says, popping Joan Jett and the Blackhearts' "I Love Rock 'n Roll" into the CD player and turning the volume knob up. 

Jim's fingers tap on the car door, keeping time with the music. A few blocks and he's got both hands drumming on the dashboard. That is, until they pull up at a stoplight and Harvey gives him a look. Like he hasn't seen Jim like this after damn near every case. Extra energy from the chase, the thrill of it, and nowhere for it to go. But he stops. Starts bouncing his leg instead. Doesn't help. Just makes him hyper aware of his phone hitting his leg with each movement. 

Jim and Oswald help each other out. Oswald with intel for cases, and Jim with whatever he can do in return without breaking the law. Security assessments. Background checks. Fixing things around the club. Carrying a blackout drunk Oswald to bed one time. But they don't text. Not unless they needed something. 

He could just text back a quick "thank you." But ten to one, the response would be just as curt, unhelpful in getting to the bottom of this. If Jim could see him, have this conversation face-to-face-- but he can't. 

He types out a quick text. _Thanks for the coffee. I needed it today._ Hits send. His leg bounces faster. 

.x.

Harvey doesn't spare time for any parting remarks as they leave their man in lock-up, just pulls his phone out and texts furiously. Waves Jim on to prepare their materials for Mason without him. It could just be Harvey's allergy to paperwork. Jim starts collecting the pictures of the scene, their notes, remembers there's no Forensics report thanks to Harvey. It could be. But after Harvey's behavior the past few days, it's probably not. 

He doubles back past lock-up, empty coffee mug in hand as an excuse. And there's Harvey and Nygma, heads bent together behind Harvey's phone, talking in hushed voices. 

Jim's got the phone out of Harvey's hand faster than he can say, "Hey, jackass! Give that back!" 

Jim barely hears him. He's staring at the photo up on the screen. A photo of Jim. A photo of Jim holding a croissant in his mouth while he balances a box of pastries in one hand and Harvey's coffee in the other from this morning, powdered sugar streaked down his face and the lapel of his suit. 

"If you've been sending that out, I swear to god--" 

"Relax. Just to Nygma. Gonna be our new contact photo for you. What, you think I'm sending it out to the guy we put away last week? How's 20 to life? Sucks? Yeah, well here's a photo of Jim looking like a putz. You're welcome." 

Jim shakes his head, but leaves it at that. 

.x. 

At Jim's knock, Mason looks up from what's either a sophisticated hacking operation of a crime syndicate or a game of Tetris. Smiles when he sees it's him, though his eyes linger on Jim's split lip. 

"Brought you a present," Jim says, electing to hand the recorder and files to Mason since his desk is completely covered in papers, coffee cups, and action figures. 

"Glad you made it back in one piece, more or less," Mason says. "You sure you can't blow off your date Saturday to come out for drinks?" 

"Pretty sure the mayor's not gonna go for that. Drinks at Carmichael's tonight?" 

"That depends. You think about what I said?" 

"Yeah." Small might be too kind for Mason's office, desk crammed against one chair, all 6'4" of Mason's lean muscle crammed behind it. Maybe a foot and a half between the desk and the closed door at Jim's back. He shifts his weight to lean back against it, crosses his arms. "I'm not gonna be the department's poster boy for new recruits." 

"You want new blood in the force, people who actually believe in justice being served? You want them to make it through their first year? They're gonna need something to work for, something to tie their hopes to. Something tangible. Principles aren't gonna talk them down from a ledge, pull them out from between a rock and a hard place, stay their hand when there's an easy, illegal out." 

"And what makes you think I can?" 

"You've been through it. Come out the other side still one of the force's best cops-" 

"Yeah, I'm a good cop. And I've got about three people in this precinct who like me, on a good day. Not a lot of people to add to that list outside of work. My ex-fiancé is a serial killer who tried to kill my next girlfriend, who, by the way, told me to go to hell last time I saw her. And I don't blame her. I can put people behind bars, and I can do it well. But you don't want to me for new recruits. Trust me." 

Mason wipes his hand down his face, over his mouth. "Yeah, okay. I'm gonna check back in with you about that in a month or so." 

Jim snorts. Uncrossed his arms, rolls his neck. Breathes out slow. "So drinks tonight?" 

"Can't. I'm taking my baby sister out to celebrate." 

"Course you are. Take it Maya's doing better, then?" 

"Her coffee shop's been open two weeks now and it's not bankrupt yet." 

"Well, shit. Tell her I said congratulations." 

"You're wondering where the hell the money came from." 

"I wasn't gonna ask-"

"Didn't have to. You're lucky all the precinct's interrogations are gonna be up to me- your face is an open book. 

"Investor contacted her. Knows she's an ex-con, doesn't care. Saw her kickstarter, loved the business plan. Covered setup costs, no strings attached. Even helped her find staff and get some good press for the place. Any other financial help depends on how business goes and what their returns are gonna be." 

"Take it you already ran a background check?" 

"Can't. Investor wants the whole thing hush-hush. Has it in the contract that she can't reveal their identity or the whole thing's off." 

"And that didn't ring any bells for you?" 

"Course it did. But this is the best thing that ever happened to her, and I'm not gonna be the one to fuck it up." 

Jim breathes out slow. Reminds himself he doesn't ask Cat how she makes ends meet when she's not eating at Bruce's. "Meet you there on Sunday?" 

"Yeah, that I can do. Nyx Coffee. Broad Street and Church." 

.x. 

The benches in the hallway outside Mason's office aren't anywhere near comfortable. Iron from the dawn of time and just a brick wall behind it to lean on, which means there's no witnesses when Jim sits down, hunches over his phone. 

Google maps Nyx Coffee like he didn't just chase a bank robber down Broad Street two weeks ago, like he didn't already know the address wasn't anywhere near the precinct or Oswald's club. Like an idiot. 

Why would Oswald go so far out of his way? 

Sure, Jim had brought up Mason. Talked about how he was one of the only other cops on the same page. How he'd backed Jim's plan for having all interrogations delegated to closers, detectives who'd been through ethical interrogation training, didn't have any write-ups for brutality on their records. Make sure when officers questioned a suspect, they got it on tape. Make sure people weren't getting put behind bars because they thought they might die in custody if they didn't confess. And Mason had volunteered to be the first one trained for the job. 

Oswald could easily have made the connection from Mason to his sister's new coffee shop. But why go through the trouble of hand-delivering a coffee for such a tangential connection to Jim? 

The first hit in his search results is Nyx Coffee's slick mobile site. Logo in the top right corner next to a drop-down site map, montage of photos of the coffee shop below. A solid glass storefront, same logo as as the coffee cup printed on it. Books filling every row in black metal bookcase, and more books stacked on a reclaimed wood counter, barely leaving room for the sugar, milk, cinnamon, and flavored syrups. Maya shaking hands with the Mayor outside the shop's entrance. He stares until the picture changes to the next, trying to make sense of that one. Thumbs back to the picture of the Mayor, barely glancing at the next picture of curly writing wrapped across a chalkboard. But there's no caption. 

He taps the mission statement. Expects another picture of Maya shaking the mayor's hand at the top. Instead, a photo of Maya in a prison-issue jumpsuit stares back at him. 

He reads about their commitment to hire exclusively ex-cons. How a percent of proceeds goes towards training programs and housing assistance for people who were recently incarcerated. How all the books in the vintage bookshelves next to the counter are waiting to be donated to prison libraries. How the top floor can be reserved for activist groups, no charge. 

Which explains the mayor's involvement. But not why Oswald brought him a coffee from Nyx. 

Hours. Directions. A link to reserve the room upstairs for activist meetings. Ads for open mic nights, benefit concerts, one burlesque show at other venues in the Arts District. A link to the site for the organization that collects the books. 

He clicks back to the main page. There had to be some part of the site he’d missed. 

The picture of the chalkboard is up again. Coffee names, single source origins on one slide, prices on the other. But then- one unbroken line of script across the bottom of the board. 

Jim nearly drops his phone. His cop reflexes are the only thing that comes between it and the unforgiving concrete. 

_Until we can all walk in the light_. Just above a hand-drawn recreation of the logo. 

Oswald. 

Jim's head is spinning. His chest feels weird. Tight. His breath's coming fast, but he can't get enough air.

An investor who wanted their name nowhere near an expensive venture that could only bring them good publicity, because they were worried their own reputation would undermine the business and its mission. A cup of coffee that required a long, deliberate trip to acquire. Those things made perfect sense now. Only nothing else did. 

It had to be a callback to when Oswald asked him to come to the club's opening party. _It's better to walk with a friend in the dark than alone in the light._ When Oswald had extended an offer of what- friendship? Ceasefire? And Jim had turned it down, rebuffed him in no uncertain terms. 

And now this. A secret good deed and a signature only Jim would understand that recalled one of the last conversations where Oswald had let him see behind his mask. The last time he'd looked at Jim, eyes wide, expression unguarded. Hopeful.

He'd probably have a better shot at making sense of this all if his heart would stop trying to give a jackhammer a run for its money. Or if his brain would stop conjuring up images of Oswald looking at him like that and let him _fucking focus_. 

He just- he needed more information. Evidence. He needed to see Oswald.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and sticking with me so far! Comments are the literal best.

"Where the hell have you been?" Harvey says when Jim gets back upstairs. "You know what, nevermind. Probably don't wanna know. Essen's been looking for us, and by us, she means you." 

.x.

The meeting could last what, ten, fifteen minutes max? And then he's free. Oswald's probably at the club already, pouring over his accounts or maybe making himself a drink while he still has the bar to himself. Jim could go there right after this, catch him before they have an audience of a few hundred people. 

But he can't just charge in there like it's a drugs bust. This will require tact, delicacy. Right. 

How would Oswald play this? Close to the chest. Make up some excuse for the visit that he could hide behind if his hunch was wrong. 

Something Jim might actually ask for, but that's not work-related. A favor that requires enough skill to serve as a proper distraction, but that he could reasonably ask someone else for, so that it's flattering, not just convenient that he came to Oswald with this. 

Jim's wearing a tux to the auction on Saturday, and he doesn't know how to tie a bow tie. Given he learned how to disassemble, fix, and reassemble a M4 in about ten minutes while nursing a mean hangover, he could probably figure it out on his own. But that's beside the point. 

Jim blinks. He can tell from the set of Essen's jaw that she's not talking about the case they solved anymore. But that's all he's got. 

"No mistakes, no slip-ups, no excuses. Do you understand me?" 

"Yes ma'am." 

Essen tilts here head, looks to Harvey. "Did your guy give him a head wound?" 

Harvey snorts. "Just go with it. Maybe it'll last til Saturday." 

"It better. The mayor's sign off on our new training budget depends on it." 

Essen's office door clicks shut, and Jim's jolted back to reality. "What did I just agree to?"

"Doesn't feel good to be the only one out of the loop, does it?" says Harvey. 

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" 

"Here I am, trying to do something nice for you even after all the shit you pulled this week, and you don't even have the decency to tell me you and Mason are banging." 

"What?"

"You go down to deliver some papers, don't come back up for fifteen, twenty minutes. Look real out of it when you do. Don't object, don't even scowl when Essen tells you you've gotta kiss the mayor's ass at the auction. You think I wouldn't notice?" 

"Harvey, _what did I agree to_?" 

"Just playing nice and not pissing off the mayor on Saturday. Also, we're both off tomorrow, and that's an order. So you got all the time in the world to tell me how long your thing with Mason's been going on." 

"What? No. He's a friend. But no." 

Harvey narrows his eyes at Jim. "Okay," he says, finally. "But you can see how I might get that idea. And I mean, I'd been thinking, if your other friend's gone and as good as got himself a date for the auction, I guess it's possible you could've kept me in the dark on this one. For a while." 

"Oswald?" Dumb question. But he might as well have had his legs kicked out from under him, left gasping and winded on the ground. 

"That's what I've heard." 

"Huh." 

"Listen, after a day like today, I'd usually say we should celebrate with some of the finest 80 proof over at Vinny's-- " 

"They only have one kind of 80 proof." The delivery's flat, but there's not much he can do about it.

"You okay, kid?" 

"That's your cue to tell me it's offered at a very fine price." 

"Clearly you don't need the reminder." 

"I'm fine." 

"Like hell you are. But I've been trying to tell you I've got a reservation for dinner with Charlie in fifteen minutes, so if there's something on your mind, spit it out." 

"But how did you know we'd--" 

"Get our man and be off the clock by then? I didn't. Got about ten different reservations, just to cover my bases." 

"Course you do." 

"What? I've been hanging out with you for about a year and managed not to wind up bleeding out in a gutter-- you think I'm gonna let my schedule get between me and date night?"

"And you're gonna be late. Get out of here." 

.x. 

It's still unclear whether the tile in Jim's kitchen was once an actual pattern, before thirty years of wear and a good coat of grime. He's getting a real close look now, back to the fridge and legs sprawled in front of him. Shoes still on like he's got anywhere to be, anything worth doing. 

Lee always said he wasn't in touch with his emotions. Said it playfully, teasing, before she would lean over and kiss him. And then, later, said it with a set to her jaw, concern in her voice, asking him to talk to someone about what was going on with him, even if he couldn't talk to her. She'd stopped saying it, stopped trying. Got the hell out. 

She was right, of course. About him being emotionally stunted. About his drinking. About being better off without him. 

He's better about the drinking now. Makes a point not to keep any alcohol in the house, not to go out drinking alone so Harvey or Mason can cut him off after one drink. 

And maybe he's had other stuff on his plate, been bone-tired when he gets home from work and hasn't had the energy to dissect how he feels and why. Or maybe it was easier to ignore all of that until he couldn't. Pretend this whole thing with Oswald was just something at the back of his mind. Distracting and dangerous, but something that would go away if he ignored it. Figures that by the time he worked everything out, it was too late. 

Of course he'd had it all wrong. Because what was more likely-- that someone knew Jim well enough to see how fucked up he was, long enough to remember every way he'd wronged them, and still wanted him? Or that the first theory he cooked up based on one photo just didn't pan out? 

The coffee could have been a friendly gesture. The note on the blackboard could have been a coincidence. Didn't mean anything. 

_"I hear your other friend's gone and as good as got himself a date."_ Harvey didn't say who he heard it from. Didn't say Oswald told him. Didn't say the date was a sure thing yet.

He thinks of Mark Evans. He and Ashley, they'd been friends. Known each other for years. Enough time for Mark to have countless chances to tell her how he felt. And he just fucking didn't. 

Instead, he'd used his job at Cindr to hack her online dating account. Waited for her to go on a few dates with a guy, then hacked their account to track them down. Killed four men in cold blood, just so he could turn around and let Ashley cry on his should when she thought those guys had blown her off. 

Okay, maybe it wasn't an exact parallel. But this was-- this was fucking Gotham, and there were so many things that could tear relationships apart, make them sour or crash and burn before they even started. He'd eat his badge before he let his pride, his stubbornness be what fucked things up for him and Oswald. 

.x. 

Fuck. 

The electro-pop outfit on stage at Oswald's club probably doesn't deserve to be cursed at under his breath, but they're single-handedly ruining everything, so. 

There's a wall of bodies packed together between Jim and the bar, where he can only pray Oswald is sitting because he can't see a damn thing. Not with the heads bobbing along to the music, the darkness, and the blinding purple lights sweeping the room. Two feet into the crowd and he's seriously contemplating throwing elbows because no one can hear him, can spare the attention to fucking get out of the way. 

He can feel a headache coming on. Halfway across the floor and it feels like it's been ages, like he's wasting time he doesn't have, because it might already be too late-- Oswald could be sharing a drink with his mystery date right now, and Jim wouldn't even know-- He breathes out. Pulls his phone out of pocket to see how long this has actually taken. When he glances down, it's only been six minutes. Also, his coat-sleeve is somehow covered in gold glitter. Huh.

When he looks back up, two men in front of him have pulled apart, coming up for air. Left a clear view of the bar in their place. Where he can see Oswald. Back to Jim, motioning to the bartender. Both seats beside him taken, but with their occupants facing away, clearly talking to other people. 

A few more minutes and Jim's finally free of the crowd. Close enough to see the blue drink in a martini glass sitting in front of Oswald, which seems to have his full attention.

Jim's mouth is dry, tongue heavy. "Hey," he manages, yelling to be heard over the music. Oswald swivels on his bar stool, looks up, eyes like saucers. A slow smile spreads across his face. 

"Jim!" Oswald says. 

"Can we talk? Somewhere quieter?" 

"Of course. Follow me." Oswald sits up stiffly, but without second glance at his drink. Leads Jim behind the bar and through the darkened kitchen saying, "I hope you aren't hungry; I'm afraid the staff have gone home for the night, as most patrons are here for the musical performance." Down a narrow hallway that opens out into a foyer with plush carpet and an ornate silver elevator. 

It's the best lighting they've had so far, and the corners of Oswald's mouth turn downwards when he takes in Jim's split lip. He comes back to himself quickly, smiling and saying, "Where are my manners? How are you?" 

"I've got the day off tomorrow. Captain's orders." 

"Ah." 

Jim bites his lip. He shouldn't be surprised that Oswald understands; his frustration's probably written all over his face. "What about you?" 

"We all have our crosses to bear. The act you saw when you came in has been great for business-- they've sold out the past two nights-- but between you and me, they aren't really my cup of tea." 

"More of a rock-and-roll fan?" 

"Musical theater is more to my taste, if you must know. A favorite genre of my mother's." 

"Mine, too." 

The elevator dings, and they both step on. There are a few beats of silence before Oswald turns to look at him. "I'm sure you didn't come to discuss our families. What can I do for you? I must confess, I hadn't expected you to revisit so soon--" 

"I'm not here for intel." Jim sucks in a breath, pointedly doesn't turn to see how Oswald's taken that. "I uh, realized I don't know how to tie a bow tie. And with the charity ball on Saturday, I need to. I was hoping you could help me out with that." 

"Have you ever actually seen me wear a bow tie?" 

"I guess not. But you're always so put together-- and you seem good at tying knots--" 

Oswald laughs. "Do I?" 

"For all those different tie things you used to wear," Jim finishes lamely. He's grateful when Oswald turns away, leading him into the drawing room. 

Everything in the room's above his pay grade. The first time he'd been here, he'd hated it. Not the dark wood paneling or the color palette of lush purples and slate gray, not even the damn orchids. Just the feel of it. Everything too smooth, too manicured. But now, sliding into the high-backed chair that he knows is the most comfortable seat in the room feels like some sort of home-field advantage. 

"Continental crosses and cravats aren't actually as tricky as they might look," Oswald says, taking a seat on the couch across from him. "Neither are bow ties, and I'd be happy to show you." 

"Thank you." 

"I don't suppose you brought one?" 

"I did, actually." 

"Look at you, coming prepared." 

"Seemed like the least I could do, coming here and asking for help." 

"How old are you? Thirty, thirty-five?" 

"Thirty-three." 

"Thirty-three years and you haven't learned how to dress up. I consider this more of a public service than a personal favor." 

Jim laughs despite himself. "Are you gonna teach me or not?" 

Oswald leans over the table, hand outstretched, palm up. "You know I'm a man of my word." Jim pulls the crumpled bow tie out of his breast pocket by one end. Lets the fabric pool in Oswald's palm, his own hand kept at a safe distance. 

Oswald has nice hands. Long, slender fingers that unknot his thin, black tie with military efficiency. Jim swallows, definitely doesn't think about Oswald making quick work of anything but else he's wearing.

Oswald folds up his collar and loops the bow tie around the back of his neck. Looks down to gauge the length of each side, crosses them, feeds one end under the other. Jim needs to get this out before he loses his focus again. "I uh, I wanted to say thanks. You could probably have your date fix your tie for you on the day of, but if I can't manage mine, I'm on my own." 

The bow tie slips forms Oswald's fingers, falls to hang limp around his neck. "I'm sorry?" 

"Not a lot of officers backstage who are gonna be willing to help me out with that, and I'll resign before I ask Aubrey to."

"No, I-- whatever gave you the impression that I would be coming to the ball with a date? The entire spectacle is ridiculous, and hardly suitable for-- the only reason I will be making an appearance is that, as a local businessman, I would be remiss not to show my support for the children's hospital and the fine work the doctors there are doing." 

"Oh. Ah, right. Harvey said--" 

"Do you presume me to be in the habit of sharing intimate details of my personal life with Detective Bullock?" 

Fair enough. Jim bites his lip. "So, about that bow tie--" 

Oswald glances down, takes ahold of each side of the bow tie. "I can begin again--" 

"No, I was thinking-- it might help for me to see how to tie it the way I'll be looking at it when I have to do it myself, not everything in reverse." 

"Ah." Oswald's fingers tense on the fabric, but then begin undoing the loop he made. "All right. Can you get your tie off, or do you need help with that, as well?" 

It's difficult to come up with an appropriate comeback, now that Oswald's come to stand behind him and he can feel his breath on his neck. A small mercy that the muscle memory helps him get his tie off quickly. 

Oswald lifts his collar, fingers brushing Jim's neck just briefly enough that it might not have been on purpose. And then there's the warm weight of Oswald's arms on Jim's shoulders as he reaches over to loop the bow tie around his neck. His movements are still graceful as he begins to tie it, but slower this time, more deliberate. Like that's any help to Jim. 

Then Oswald's hands are back on Jim's collar, smoothing it back over a perfectly tied bow tie. Jim closes his eyes, breathes out. Right. "I think I'm all set now," he says. "Thank you." 

Oswald moves back. Jim stands up, turns to face him. "Of course," Oswald says. "I don't suppose I can persuade you to stay for a drink?" 

"Better go home and practice." 

For once, Oswald doesn't push. "Until Saturday, then." 

It can't be that hard to find a YouTube tutorial on tying a bow tie. Five, ten minutes tomorrow and he should know what he's doing. "Yeah, see you Saturday."

**Author's Note:**

> Trope bingo: charity bachelor auction, as suggested by ConfectionOfVenom and seconded by Lady_Blackadder.


End file.
